The Case of the Flirty Girl
by Nemaides
Summary: Fiona Baker is just the type of girl that Lucy hates. (One-shot)


**A one shot.**

During my experiences as an assistant in the paranormal agency Lockwood & Co., I'd been through many things: cases that made my heart beat faster, where rapiers clashed and sparks flew in the dark. Things like the Mortlake Horror and the Combe Carey Haunting, to name a few; and those were assignments worthy of our combined Talents. Those were the cases that my colleagues and I dreamed of, that we trained for, that we practically _lived _for.

So there were cases like those . . . and then there were ones like _these._

"Tell me, what did this 'figure' look like?" Lockwood flipped to a blank page of his notebook.

Fiona Baker, our (and to avoid future confusion, _yes, _she was quite young_)_ client, came out of the kitchen carrying a tray. Flip-flops smacked loudly on the ceramic tiles as she teetered toward us and sat down, began organizing three cups of tea on the table. She couldn't have been past twenty years of age, and yet her senses were already dull and faded against the paranormal. It happens to some earlier than most.

A brief glance was set my way. It was barely a scanning look, just to make sure I was indeed there; then she turned her attentions to the young man sitting beside me. Lockwood's elegant suit and tie seemed to be of her approval, because she smiled again. Meanwhile, the tea at her side began to cool; with it, the smiles of Lockwood and I slowly froze on our faces. At last:

"Shall we . . . ?" I said impatiently. "It's getting a bit late."

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry . . . what'd you say?" Fiona's glasses began sliding down her nose as she unloaded the tray. A blackened pot of tea was set down, and three chipped cups clattered after it. After a brief afterthought, the girl began clumsily pouring the tea.

I sopped up a slosh of tea with my napkin. "What did the ghost look like?"

Fiona didn't even glance in my direction. Instead, she smiled again at Lockwood and began passing out the cups. I pulled one rather grudgingly towards me, raised it to my lips. But I didn't drink. Something else had caught my attention.

Fiona was busily fluttering her lashes as she passed Lockwood his cup, fluffing out her hair and cooing like a dove. I felt something akin to irritation swell up inside. She'd only set eyes on Lockwood for _two bloody minutes, _and now she was flirting away like nothing else. I slammed my tea down on its saucer.

"Is there something stuck in your eye?"

The eyelashes stopped fluttering. Full lips parted, stretched into a confused smile, and I tried to keep my eyes from staring at the bit of lipstick Fiona had smudged on her tooth.

"Uh . . . _no._ Nothing's in my eye," the girl said. She giggled nervously, then gave me another head-to-toe look before turning her head away, as if I were hardly worthy of her attention.

I glowered at the table.

Lockwood cleared his throat in an attempt to clear the air. Then he flashed his megawatt smile. "Thank you for the tea, Miss Baker."

She just about hyperventilated. "Oh, you can call me _Fiona_."

"Really? Then, _Fiona,_ can you describe to us what you saw last night?"

That very morning, George had received a call from Fiona about paranormal activities occurring in her residence. Lockwood and I had been dispatched to meet her later on in the day, after a rather grimy job of scouting out a ladies' bathroom (the ghost was, apparently, lurking in the pipework).

"Well . . . it was gray," Fiona said, musingly. We waited expectantly, but the curly-haired brunette blinked back at us. I couldn't help but think maliciously that Fiona's eye shadow made her look like a deranged owl. And that was an insult to deranged owls everywhere.

"Is there really nothing else?" I asked, crossing my arms. "It's not exactly material we can work with."

"That's all I saw," Fiona insisted. A shadow passed across her face; she looked down into her lap. "It was a gray form lurking beside my bed. You know my Sight's going. It's getting harder and harder to sense Visitors these days." Her head shot up, and suddenly green eyes were flashing fiercely at me. "_You _wouldn't know. But just you wait!"

Caught off guard, I could only scowl at her.

Lockwood glanced sideways at me. "All right, all right. We need to calm down. Actually, _you _really need to calm down, Luce. Let her take her time."

"I _am _calm," I muttered.

"Remember your anger management."

"Anger management? Why would I be angry?"

"Er . . ."

Fiona's head had been swiveling back and forth between us—she turned to Lockwood. "I can't work with her. She's too difficult to get along with."

"_I'm _too difficult?" I cried. "Why don't you take your-"

Lockwood pressed me firmly back into my seat. "_Lucy. _Now, let's all just get along." He wasn't smiling now, his face serious and impatient. "Just this interview, _please,_ Miss . . . sorry, Fiona."

As if on exasperated impulse, Lockwood took a sip of tea. He gagged almost imperceptibly and quickly put the cup down. One hand fumbled for the mints in his left pocket.

"Miss Baker. _Are_ there any other descriptions you would use for this disturbance?" I asked through my teeth, wisely leaving the tea untouched. We both gazed at each other with eyes that could melt steel.

"Gray," Fiona said cattily.

I fought the urge to throttle her.

"Please, Fiona." Lockwood was speaking now. "Is there anything else? It would help." Cue the charming smile and polite inclination of the head. I had his manipulative ways down to pat.

Fiona brushed back a strand of hair and sighed loudly, quite the damsel in distress. "I'd rather not dwell on it, you know? But if you _really _need the information . . . I must be brave, I suppose . . . well, it was at night, so it was quite dark. I had all the lights off, and when I woke up, I could barely see a thing. And it was very cold, unbearably so. I . . . I thought it was the thermostat, so I got out of the bed, and . . . I was overcome by this horrible feeling of dread. It was a terrible, terrible feeling, a terror and panic and _helplessness_ that can't even begin to be described. Then I saw it there, just standing in a gray blur right beside the bed. And I ran . . . "

Lockwood was bent over his notebook, hurriedly scrawling it all down. "And do you have any details to share on this 'gray blur', Miss Baker?"

The brunette propped her chin on her palm. "I told you to call me _Fiona."_

"Sorry. Go on?"

"A very tall man, I'd say, and the rest was too blurred for me to tell."

More scribbling. I saw Lockwood take an instinctive swig of tea as he wrote, chugging down a big gulp as the pencil scrawled across the paper; he seemed too concentrated now to notice the taste, however, and laid the cup back down on its saucer without much fuss.

Fiona cleared her throat and smiled persuasively. Like a drowning cat, she was seizing her last chance with sharpened claws. "_Tell_ me, Lockwood, are you very busy next Saturday? There's this café and . . ."

Enough was enough.

"We have _work_ on Saturday," I broke in abruptly. "And now we have all the information we need. Gray blur, tall man, go figure. Lockwood? We should head out."

"Yes, unfortunately we're at work most of the week." Lockwood smiled amiably. "We'll be here tonight to do what we can." He snapped his notebook closed, stood up, and held out his hand to shake Fiona's.

Fiona released Lockwood's hand with a great reluctance. "Oh, with _you _eradicating that ghost, I _know_ this problem will be solved."

"I'll be helping, too," I said casually, as I buttoned up my coat. "Just so you know. _Lockwood and I_ can do this."

Fiona glared icily at me; I stared stonily back. Lockwood was watching the scene in amusement, the side of his mouth quirking up slightly. At last, he butted into the tense moment.

"Well, we'd best be off . . ."

"Yes, off." I exchanged matching scowls with the girl before marching outside, hoping dearly that the glint from sunlight bouncing off my rapier blasted its way into her doe-eyed _retinas. _

Once we were safely on the sidewalk, standing in the fresh springtime air, Lockwood smiled slightly—not his megawatt grin that you obeyed despite yourself, but a friendly, _knowing _smile. He leaned on the white picket fence and twirled his rapier loftily in one hand, framed neatly by the afternoon sun.

"Tell me, Lucy . . . were you two just _fighting_ over me?"

I stared at him disbelievingly. My throat suddenly turned a bit dry. Then:

"_You? _As if!_" _I scoffed. "I'd rather fight with that girl over a hedgehog! Don't be so big headed, Lockwood. You wouldn't possibly understand."

I then whirled around and stormed down the street, Lockwood's merry laughter trailing after me.


End file.
